In August of 1998 we adopted two beautiful children, ages 6 and 7, from another state. Since we already had a birth child, age 5, we were now blessed with three children.
Although we were told the boy (I will call him John) had ADHD, we really didn't know what that entailed. And nobody told us the girl (I will call her Mary) had ADD, because nobody knew. She seemed like a model child with no behavioral issues whatsoever. Yet by October we realized both kids shared a serious neurological disorder that evoked completely different symptoms in the two siblings. And by late December we were convinced both children would eventually improve with diet therapy. But we didn't know that "eventually" was measured in years, rather than months.
Still, he was unmanageable - out of control. He broke three items per day, some trivial and some valuable. There was no malice or vandalism, we were simply living with Curious George incarnate. At the same time he often inflicted minor injuries on his sisters through reckless play. He was in constant motion, babbling loudly and incessantly from morning til night. Most of the time his speech exhibited the impediments of a child half his age: W replaced R and L, and the pitch was high and squeaky. I call this "Elmo-speak". Although he was always getting into trouble, often defiant, and sometimes violently oppositional, there were times when the sunshine of his kindness and intellect broke through the storm clouds of hyperactivity, rare glimpses of hope in an otherwise dark and tumultuous world.
Despite a series of parenting classes in two different states, our attempts at behavior modification were failing miserably. I finally realized he could not control his actions. Our battery of admonitions and time-out punishments accomplished nothing; they only served to pummel his already weakened self esteem. If we stayed this course for 6 more months, his gentle soul would be crushed between the studded wheels of his neurological juggernaut and the inflexible pavement of our rules and punishments.
One night, after an entire day of misbehavior and physical containment, this remarkably perceptive 6-year-old said, in a defeated voice, "Daddy, I'm trying so hard. But I'm very tired. I just want to go to sleep." Although he could not fully articulate, I was able to read between the lines. "I'm tired of always getting into trouble, tired of being the bad boy at school and at home, tired of hurting my sisters, tired of exploding into anger every time you ask me to do something, and tired of fighting you with my words and my fists, because I really do love you." As he began his pre-sleep rocking in his bed I started to cry, and could not stop. I too was tired. Tired of monitoring his every move from morning til night, tired of putting him in extended time-outs, tired of declaring rooms and activities off limits, tired of physically managing his tantrums, and tired of the steady stream of sincere apologies from his small, broken spirit. "Sorry I hit you Daddy. Sorry for all the things I did wrong today." His contrition was always genuine, because his actions were not his own. I borrowed a couple of tissues, told him I loved him, and left the room. I think he will always remember that night; I know I will.